North and South: The North and South Trilogy (Book One)

by John Jakes

  Because he couldn’t stand to live like a monk, he slept with Indian girls occasionally. He found them lively and affectionate, and he didn’t catch the pox. And of course, because it was an expected part of military life, he participated in the chief sport of the officers—argument.

  They argued about everything. One favorite topic, good for hours, was the flat Grimsley saddle adopted ten years earlier. Albert Sidney Johnston had liked it, but most of the officers sided with Van Dorn, who insisted the design was responsible for too many sore-backed horses.

  They argued about weapons. Generally, Colt repeaters and Sharps carbines were considered best, although such views didn’t make a particle of difference, since the government’s theory of ordnance seemed to be that the Army should use whatever old weapons happened to be stockpiled in Federal warehouses. Hence most of Company K was equipped with 1833-model Hall smoothbore carbines, and never mind that European and American arms experts agreed on the superiority of a rifled barrel. There were even some musketoons in the troop. Old single-shot horse pistols were used for holster weapons. Charles felt fortunate to possess a ten-year-old Colt.

  There were arguments about food, drink, women. About the motives of Indians and the character of Colonel Lee. About the purpose and execution of Colonel Johnston’s campaign against the Mormons and their so-called State of Deseret. The hottest differences of opinion were always generated by political issues, such as the pro-Southern constitution adopted at Lecompton, Kansas.

  The Lecompton constitution offered Kansas voters a choice between a limited form of slavery and the unrestricted practice of it. President Buchanan supported it. Senator Douglas damned it, and most of the Northerners on the post agreed with the Little Giant. Charles kept out of the disputes, but his restraint did not really work to his benefit. Everyone assumed he was on the pro-slavery side.

  Arguments on any subject frequently ended with a pronouncement by Captain Bent which soured whatever friendly spirit had prevailed until then and left the other officers moodily staring at plate or coffee cup. Now and then Charles caught Bent watching him with more than routine interest. He couldn’t account for the attention, and it bothered him.

  In a chilly rain, the column returned from maneuvers in the northern reaches of the valley. It was the second of December 1857.

  Taking O’Dell’s suggestion, Charles had soon abandoned regulation uniforms for field duty. Today he wore a slouch hat pulled far down over his bearded face, trousers of buffalo calf leather, and a deerskin coat. Around the coat collar hung a bear-claw necklace.

  Mud flew as Bent rode up next to him. The captain’s glance usually registered disapproval of Charles’s clothing. This time, however, he chose to smile.

  “A fire will feel good, eh, Charles?”

  The first-name familiarity was unusual and made him nervous. “Yes, sir, very good.”

  “After you tend to your mount and put on fresh clothes, why not drop into my quarters for a toddy? I’d like to show you my edition of Jomini’s Summary of the Art of War. You’re familiar with the baron’s concepts, are you not?”

  “Of course, sir. We heard a lot about them from Old Cobben Sense.” In fact, some of Professor Mahan’s critics had said he devoted too much of his course on the science of war to the ideas of the Swiss military theorist.

  “I’ll expect you, then. We’ll have a splendid discussion.”

  Squinting against the rain, Charles got a clear look at Bent’s wet face. Something in the captain’s eyes put him off. He knew he must be polite, but he refused to go further.

  “It’s a very kind offer, sir, but I think I’m coming down with grippe.” It was true; he felt feverish after riding for hours in this bad weather.

  “Later, then. Next week—”

  “Sir—” He knew he ought not to say the next, but he was damned if he’d encourage the captain’s quest for friendship. “If it’s all the same, I prefer to be excused. I’m not much for theory.”

  Bent lost his look of smarmy good cheer. “Very well, Lieutenant. You have made yourself clear.”

  He kicked his horse and rode to the head of the column. A bolt of lightning ripped downward to the horizon. Charles shivered as Lafayette O’Dell dropped back beside him.

  “What did he want?”

  Charles explained.

  “Did you turn him down?”

  “Flat. He didn’t like it much.”

  O’Dell leaned on his saddle pommel, from which hung a pair of expensive closed holsters. Charles had a similar pair on his saddle, although he had paid extra for leopard-skin flaps. One holster held his Colt, the other an extra horseshoe, some nails, a small brush, and a currycomb.

  “You’re smart not to hang out with the captain,” O’Dell said. “I guess I should tell you about him.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That he has what are politely referred to as appetites. Strong ones.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “No, not the same kind—at least I don’t think so. The captain pretends to hate the Indians, but that doesn’t extend to squaws. From what I hear at the agency, he’ll sleep with any woman who’s available. If he can’t get his hands on a woman, a boy will do—or even an Army private too dumb and scared to refuse him. We’ve got a couple of those on the post, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “No, I hadn’t.” Charles spat out a swear word.

  “The captain hates to be turned down by anyone. I expect you’re in for a rough spell.”

  Suddenly O’Dell’s head jerked up. A startled look fleeted over his face. Neither lieutenant had realized that Bent had pulled his horse to the side of the muddy trail and was sitting there, watching them, as rain dripped from the bill of his forage cap and soaked his knee-length talma. Seconds later, Bent stood in his stirrups and called, “Trot—march!”

  The road was much too rough for it, but Charles understood the reason for the order. Because of his refusal, everyone would suffer.

  A day later, riding on the road from Camp Cooper to the Comanche Reserve, as the agency and reservation were officially called, Charles came upon an ox-drawn carreta with one of its huge wooden wheels half buried in mud. An old Indian, his fine features worn by time and toil, was vainly trying to free the cart by pushing the wheel. Without a second thought, Charles dismounted.

  “Here, let me help.” Not certain how much English, if any, the Indian understood, Charles used broad gestures to illustrate his words. “Lay that whip on the ox a couple of times while I push.”

  Moments later, with a great lurch that spilled half a dozen melons from the pile in the cart, the wheel was free. Just as Charles started for his horse, he heard riders behind him. He saw the captain, Sergeant Breedlove, and six troopers. Bent and the others reined in.

  “What the devil are you doing, Lieutenant?” Bent demanded.

  “Helping this man push his cart out of the mud.” Resentment edged his answer; it was quite evident what he had been doing.

  Sergeant Breedlove glanced at Charles with something close to sympathy. Bent said, “Don’t you recognize that fellow? Katumse is chief of the reservation Indians. We do not give aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  With that he rode on; the rest followed. Charles recalled O’Dell’s prediction. Bent’s reprimand and the look in his eyes were harbingers of things to come.

  From then on the captain found fault with nearly everything Charles did. He criticized him in front of the entire troop and assigned him extra duties. Charles held his temper with great difficulty, assuming that if he obeyed each order and refused to show a trace of emotion the harassment would eventually stop.

  It didn’t. It grew worse. In January, riding in from patrol, he found the captain waiting in the stable. Bent stepped up to Palm, slipped his index finger beneath the single band of blue woolen webbing, and tugged.

  “This girth is entirely too tight.”

  Charles was tired, cold, and consequently not inclined to patience. “Sir, it’s pe
rfectly all right.”

  A small, pursed smile. “What’s this? Insubordination? That can’t be allowed. Before you go to your quarters, I want you to unsaddle your mount, then saddle him again. Do that—let’s see—ten times.”

  “Damn it, sir, what’s the purpose of—?”

  Charles bit off the blurted question. He knew what the purpose was, but he didn’t dare confront his superior with it.

  The outburst pleased the captain. “More insolence? Do it fifteen times. I shall send one of the noncoms to observe and report when you’re finished. Sergeant Breedlove, I think.” Bent was not insensitive to relationships within Company K. Breedlove was known to think poorly of the troop’s second lieutenant.

  Shortly the first sergeant arrived in the freezing stable where Charles had just lit two lanterns. For the first time Breedlove looked at him with a flicker of compassion.

  “Sure sorry to have to do this, Lieutenant.”

  “Keep your mouth shut and we’ll both get out of here sooner,” Charles retorted.

  Breedlove found a nail keg, turned it on its end, and sat down. His face no longer showed sympathy. Charles worked with angry motions, his breath pluming every time he exhaled. When he finished over two hours later—he had been slowed by exhaustion toward the end—his arms and shoulders throbbed. Leaving the stable, he stumbled and fell. Sergeant Breedlove didn’t offer to help him up.

  “The Butterfield coach is four hours overdue,” Bent said above the howl of the wind.

  A fire of fragrant mesquite wood sizzled in the stone hearth of the small day room. O’Dell stood in front of the fire, warming his hands. Although he was indoors, he wore his fur coat, the kind of shaggy garment that caused the Comanches to call the cavalrymen buffalo soldiers.

  The first lieutenant needed that coat. The fire produced almost no warmth. The room felt like an icehouse. How cold was it outside? Ten below? During this kind of late-winter storm, the temperature sometimes dipped even lower than that.

  Bent was on his feet now. His small eyes, pricked by the light of several oil lamps, grew thoughtful as he studied the map tacked to the jacal wall. The recently opened stagecoach line connected Fort Smith with El Paso and California. Part of the route lay along the military road that ran southwest from Camp Cooper. The coach was lost somewhere out there.

  “I expect they just stopped till the storm blows over,” O’Dell said.

  “That’s the logical assumption, naturally. But we mustn’t permit that to lull us into complacence. What if there was a wreck? What if passengers are hurt? In need of assistance? We must send a search party. I have already spoken with the commandant, and he’s in agreement.”

  “Sir, that’s a norther outside! The wind’s going sixty miles an hour. Ice is already an inch thick on everything. We should at least wait until morning before—”

  Bent interrupted: “The commandant left the timing entirely to my discretion. The detachment will leave within the hour.” He avoided O’Dell’s eyes as he went on, “Ten men, I think. With extra rations and whiskey. Put Lieutenant Main in command.”

  O’Dell was so stunned he couldn’t bring himself to send a noncom to waken Charles. He went in person, taking ten minutes just to fight through the storm to the barracks. Shivering in his long underwear, Charles sat up, a bewildered expression on his face.

  “Tonight? God above, Lafe, is he crazy?”

  “I’d say so. But of course circumstances protect him. The coach is way late, and it’s remotely possible that the passengers do need help.”

  “More likely they’re holed up. Or dead. I think the son of a bitch means to kill me.”

  “Just because you turned him down that time?” O’Dell sounded skeptical.

  “I know it’s senseless, but what else could it be?”

  Charles flung off the layers of blankets and hides under which he had been trying to keep warm. “I don’t know why he wants me out of the way so badly, but I sure as hell won’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t let him squander the lives of good men, either. I’ll come back and bring the whole detachment with me, don’t you worry.”

  He sounded more confident than he felt. He put on every hickory shirt and pair of cord pants he owned, while the Texas norther screamed outside like someone gone mad.

  The eleven mounted soldiers left Camp Cooper at one in the morning. The wind-driven sleet had coated everything. But it wasn’t deep, as snow would have been, so they were able to keep to the wagon road. The footing was extremely treacherous, however. They traveled no more than a mile in four hours. By then Sergeant Breedlove was calling Bent every name he knew and, when he ran out of those, invented some.

  Charles had wrapped a long wool scarf around his ears and the lower part of his face. He might as well have worn gauze. His face felt like a block of wood. He could barely move his lips to issue orders.

  The men cursed and complained, but they kept on. They followed in single file behind him, recognizing that he was riding on the point, taking the brunt of the wind and risking himself by being first to cross the treacherous ground.

  At daybreak the wind abruptly shifted to the southwest. Then it moderated. Rips appeared in the clouds, with the glow of sunrise showing through. Half an hour later, as they picked their way across a landscape that still resembled glass, Breedlove croaked, “Look, sir. Down the road.”

  A slender column of smoke rose to the clearing sky. “I’ll wager it’s the coach,” Charles said in an equally hoarse voice. “They’re probably tearing it apart and burning it to keep warm. Looks like it’s about a mile away.”

  A mile and a half, as it turned out. It took them more than three hours to reach the source of the smoke. The coach lay on its side with its two near wheels and doors missing. Part of the door had not yet been consumed by the nearby fire. Just as the detachment came close enough to discern that, Breedlove’s roan slipped and lamed the left forefoot.

  The other troopers saw to the survivors of the accident—the coach driver, guard, and three male passengers who were nearly comatose. Charles heard the driver mumbling about the vehicle’s overturning on glare ice. Nearby lay the frozen corpses of three of the horses; the other three had galloped into the storm to die.

  Charles watched Breedlove finish his examination of the injured roan. Reluctantly, he offered the sergeant his revolver.

  “Shoot him. I’ll do it if you can’t.”

  The sergeant couldn’t stand to look at his fallen mount any longer. “How will I get back to camp?”

  “The same way as the passengers. Riding behind someone else. I’ll take you.”

  “Lieutenant, I know—I know you prize Palm as much as I prize Old Randy. Any horse that carries a double load very far in this kind of weather will be wore out long before we reach camp. As good as dead. You carry me and you’ll have to shoot Palm, too. I’ll ride with one of the men.”

  “Goddamn it, don’t argue. A man’s more important than a horse. You’ll ride with me.”

  They sounded like shrill children. Two troopers helped the glassy-eyed coach guard toward one of the horses. Breedlove stared at the revolver, then at his fallen mount. He shook his head.

  “I can’t. If you’ll do it for me, I’ll be in your debt forever.”

  “Turn the other way.”

  Breedlove did, squinting into the flare of the morning sun on the fields of ice. Charles raised the gun and prayed the mechanism wasn’t frozen; to prolong this would be torture for the sergeant. Slowly he squeezed the trigger. The revolver bucked. The echo boomed away into space, followed by Old Randy’s startled bellow of pain. Chunks of flesh were blown from the other side of the roan’s head. They landed on the ice, smoking.

  Sergeant Breedlove covered his face with his hands and cried.

  Half a mile this side of the post, Palm sank down, unable to go farther. Heartbroken, Charles put two bullets into the horse. Then he and Breedlove walked the rest of the way with blood oozing inside their boots. The post physician told Charl
es he had come close to losing three toes from frostbite.

  He slept eighteen hours. Shortly after he woke, Breedlove paid a call and offered a nervous apology.

  “I sure had you figured wrong, Lieutenant. I am one hundred percent sorry for that. You showed plenty of sand when it counted. I’ve never seen that in any of the Southrons in this regiment.”

  “Not in Colonel Lee or Van Dorn?”

  “No.”

  “Well, believe me, it’s there, in just about the same measure as in other men. Yankees, for example,” Charles added with a wry smile. “Maybe you never looked for it, Sergeant.”

  “Yes,” Breedlove mumbled, shamefaced. “Something to that, all right.”

  That night Charles wrote a letter to Orry, a letter long overdue. His accumulated anger could be heard in the harsh, rasping sound of his pen on the paper. After the salutation, he came directly to the point.

  I am fortunate to be alive to send this to you, for reasons I shall shortly describe. I know you will find it startling, but know that I am being truthful when I say I am now almost certain that my company commander wishes to see me come to harm because of fancied slights and incidents of insubordination which exist more in his own mind than in fact. Orry, I have somehow become mixed up with a d——d lunatic, and since he is about your age and an Academy man, I hasten to ask whether perchance you know him.

  Charles paused to stab his quill into the ink pot again. The shimmering flame of his desk lamp shifted shadows back and forth on his bleak face. His eyes revealed his confusion and his wrath as he added the next:

  His name is Elkanah Bent.

  45

  BENT’S PLAN HAD FAILED. Disastrously. Not only had Charles Main survived the rescue trip in weather that could have left him dead or maimed for life, he and his detachment had been cited in General Orders from headquarters of the Department of Texas. The citation spoke of “performance of a humanitarian mission in the face of extreme natural hazards,” and it became part of each man’s permanent record. The commandant had hosted a banquet for the detachment and toasted Main’s bravery.